The chill of the prison cell seeped into Kelanar's bones, a constant, gnawing reminder of her new reality. The rough stone walls offered no comfort, only a cold, unyielding silence broken by the distant clang of chains and the mournful cries of other prisoners. She ran a calloused hand over the crude iron shackles on her wrists, the metal cold and heavy. Her heart, however, felt heavier still. Every breath was a fight against the suffocating grief, a struggle to push back the image of Hector's face, etched into her memory, now twisted by the accusation that had landed her here. Accused of attempted murder, she was nothing more than a prisoner in the guard tower, a place of no return for most. Outside, the last sliver of twilight bled through the tiny, barred window, painting the grim cell in hues of fading purple and gray, mirroring the despair that clung to her soul.